by T A Williams
‘My friends call me Mo.’
‘Well, welcome aboard, Mo. I’ll send you a letter tomorrow with all this in writing. I think I will call your position,’ he paused for a few moments until the idea came to him, ‘Personnel Officer. Sounds good, eh?’ He already had his hand on the door handle, when he had a sudden thought. ‘By the way, a while ago, when you thought you’d got a weirdo on your hands, you made mention of your friend who would come along and duff me up. Is there somebody else here, or do you work alone? I don’t really want too many people in on this for the moment.’
She pushed past him out into the hall, and opened the door opposite. In front of the TV was an empty armchair. Beside it on a low table, stood a half-empty mug of tea. She gave him a shy smile.
‘I told you business was not as good as it might be. Was a time I would have had a man here, ready to come and sort out any bother. Not these days.’
He felt quite sorry for her and it must have showed on his face.
‘You are a good man, Douglas. I can see that. Let me give you a word of warning and, for God’s sake, remember that you did not get this from me. Watch out if you do get successful. There are some really bad people out there. They will come and cause you grief, if you know what I mean. They will call it protection, or help, or a contribution to the fund, or whatever. But, call it what you will, it means you pay them off, or you end up in deep trouble.’
Duggie began to feel worried.
‘Deep trouble…?’
‘The sort of trouble that has people like you on crutches, and girls like me needing plastic surgery. Got it? Know what I mean?’ She evidently saw comprehension on his face. ‘So watch your back and, when they come calling, pay them. And remember, you didn’t hear this from me.’
On an impulse he kissed her on the cheek and left. He was still wiping the thick film of face cream off his lips as he left the building three flights of stairs below.
Chapter 18
Sitting in Harvard, at a desk borrowed from a friend, Roger was miserable.
As miserable as St Bernard must have been in 1148, when the Second Crusade faltered and then collapsed? Definitely.
As miserable as St Bernard, when he heard the news of the death of his much-loved mother? Possibly.
As miserable as Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Knights Templar, on the day he was taken to the Ile de la Cité, and burnt to death over a slow fire? Well, maybe not.
But, still, he was really, really miserable.
And it was all his own stupid fault. The only woman he had ever loved now thought him a coarse boor, or worse. Had he really put his arm round her and kissed her, as a vague recurring nightmare seemed to indicate? But what was even worse was the fact that he had lacked the courage to throw himself at her feet and apologise. All he had done was scuttle away like a frightened crab heading for a crevice in a rock.
He should never have got so drunk. Of course, he knew it was fear that had driven him to the stupidity of trying to get some Dutch courage. But he had ended up no better than a lager lout. He was a pathetic, spineless worm and he knew it ? and now so did she. His time in the US was miserable, not just because of the autumn weather.
It was a full week before this particular spineless worm managed to summon up the courage to return to Toplingham. Unexpectedly, he managed to feel some small glimmer of happiness intrude upon his dark cloud of depression, as the taxi dropped him under the Georgian columns of his front door. Stepping inside the elegant hallway, his mood of despondency was further relieved by ferocious barking and a furry assault. Jasper would have had him on his back, but for some snappy footwork. He dropped his bag and knelt down to the dog, as Duggie appeared from his office.
‘Welcome home, governor.’ He tugged what little forelock he had left. ‘On behalf of your faithful staff, we wish you the top of the morning. Or is it the middle of the night for your body clock?’
‘Hello, Duggie. Good to see you. Thanks again for taking Jasper at such short notice.’ Roger reached out and proffered the duty free bag. ‘Here’s a little something. Hope Jasper didn’t upset your life too much.’
‘Thanks, Roger. We’ll take him any time. Tina seems to be getting more fond of him than she is of me. Apparently he smells better than I do and makes less mess.’
Together they walked into the main office. Roger noted that, in his absence, the decorators had finished. New furniture had been delivered and it all looked very smart and modern. Things were really moving on apace. ‘Looks good, Duggie. When do we open?’
‘Still on target for January, so that’s less than three months now. The golf course is coming on, and the other facilities are being installed as we speak. That’ll be the fitness centre, indoor and outdoor pools, refurbished squash courts and four spanking-new tennis courts.’
Duggie wisely chose to keep to himself the modifications to the second-floor bedrooms which he had put in train. On reflection, he also decided that maybe the epithet ‘spanking’ should be avoided when referring to these. It was not going to be easy to keep his alternative use of the second floor a secret. Of that he was in no doubt.
‘How’s Linda?’ Roger’s voice was studiously neutral. This was the bit Duggie had been dreading.
‘Um, afraid she’s not too well, actually. She went off a couple of days ago. Apparently she had a migraine, and she has been laid low ever since. I haven’t wanted to phone, in case I disturbed her.’ He noted the immediate concern on Roger’s face.
‘Good day, Mr Roger. I hope you had a good journey.’
Henri materialised by his right arm and gently removed the coat, briefcase and bag from Roger’s unresisting grasp. ‘I have taken the liberty of preparing a nice hot bath and some good Italian coffee. I am sure you will find it better than that dishwater they serve in the USA.’ As ever, the Frenchman had read his mind. There really was a lot to be said for a good butler.
Jasper led the way. Roger followed him up the stairs to his apartment on the first floor. A wonderful smell of fresh coffee awaited him. Less than five minutes later, he was lying in the bath. Jasper lay on the floor and chewed an unopened bar of soap. He could hear Henri picking his clothes up from the bedroom floor and unpacking his bag. By the time he had dried himself off, retrieved and disposed of the remains of the soap from the now rabid-looking, foaming dog, the butler had withdrawn. A change of underpants, socks and shirt were laid out on the bed. Roger’s mood was definitely improving. A cup of freshly ground coffee did wonders for his equilibrium. Jasper still looked more like he was in the midst of a particularly frothy cappuccino.
‘We must go and see how she is, Jasper. Particularly seeing as I am probably the cause of the headache.’ The dog wagged his tail approvingly and sneezed soap suds across the room. Roger watched as a large bubble rose to the ceiling before disappearing without trace. Lower flying bubbles were voraciously devoured by the dog.
Should he phone to speak to her first, he wondered, as he made his way down the stairs. As he did so, he could hear the sounds of refurbishment work up on the second floor. Outside, while Jasper plunged into the rhododendrons in a futile attempt to eviscerate a squirrel, Roger finally found the courage to do the right thing. He wouldn’t telephone. He would go and see her right now. He would throw himself at her feet and apologise, even if all it resulted in was opprobrium.
He opened the back door of the Volvo, which brought the dog running back like magic to leap inside. He jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine, setting off at a fast pace down to the end of the steep drive, where it met the main road.
‘I don’t care if she slaps me, Jasper. I’ve behaved like a brute and I deserve everything that’s coming to me.’ He accelerated up through the gears.
A glance in the rear-view mirror told him the dog was more interested in the squirrel he had left behind. Nevertheless, when they got to Linda’s flat, he would see his master show he had the courage to act like a man.
‘You’ll see, Ja
sper…Whoah…’
He was coming into the last bend very fast. He braked hard. But, as his foot pressed down on the pedal, it just slid down to the floor. Nothing happened. To his horror, it had no effect at all. He pressed as hard as he could, fighting to keep the car on the road round the bend.
‘Oh, dear God. No, no, no!’
The Volvo continued to speed up on the gradient. The speedometer needle flickered forward.
Roger stamped his foot repeatedly up and down on the pedal, but to no avail. The road sloped down even more steeply until, as he screamed out loud, the car shot straight out across the main road, mercifully missing any passing traffic. It smashed into the bank on the other side. There was a crack as the front and side airbags exploded into his face. A massive thud told him the dog had crashed into the back of the rear seat. Then all movement stopped, and he found himself looking up through the windscreen at the tops of the trees and the sky.
He must have sat there for quite a while. Finally there was a scrabbling noise at the door. He recognised Stan and one of the other ground staff. They were tugging at the handle to open the jammed door. His brain gradually started to work again. Gingerly, he bent his leg. To his great relief, it felt unhurt. He leant back and kicked the door from the inside. Fortunately it gave way and willing hands helped him out. The nose of the car was nearly vertical, but there seemed to be remarkably little structural damage. A movement inside reminded him of the dog. He hurried round, as best he could, to the back door. They were able to open it sufficiently for the very subdued dog to slide out onto the road. Luckily Jasper did not seem to be badly hurt, although he was clearly scared and limping. Roger ran his hand across his own face, and was mildly surprised to see it come away red with blood.
‘It’s all right, boss.’ Stan was more attentive than he had ever seen him. ‘It’s all right, really. It’s the airbags that scratch the skin. I’m sure you are fine.’ Moments later a flashing blue light indicated the arrival of a police car, closely followed by an ambulance. As a uniformed officer came up to him, he felt he should explain.
‘The brakes. They just didn’t work…’ The policeman nodded sympathetically. Roger continued rather limply, ‘and it’s a brand-new car…’
‘Never mind, sir, we’ll sort it all out. Here, let’s get the paramedics to take a look at you.’
Duggie appeared like magic alongside him as they led him to the ambulance. He cast an approving look at the lack of damage to the near-vertical Volvo.
‘Just as well it wasn’t that old deathtrap you used to drive, eh, Rog?’ And he gave him an encouraging hug. ‘I’ll take old Jasper with me for a bit more tender loving care with Tina.’
Roger nodded gratefully through the veil that seemed to be surrounding his head. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. He heard a distant voice say: ‘He’s in shock.’
Somebody helped him climb into the ambulance. They lay him down on a stretcher. Then he seemed to fall asleep very quickly.
Chapter 19
Roger stayed in the hospital under observation until the next day. The lacerations to his face were indeed, as Stan had suggested, due to the abrasive effects of the airbags. After a rather painful cleaning and disinfecting process, the wounds were left to heal naturally. The young doctor who looked after him was full of admiration for airbag technology. She kept on repeating that they had probably saved at least his appearance, if not his life. This fact, whilst no doubt quite true, did little to make the cuts and grazes any less painful. He received no visitors while he was there. He subsequently discovered that the hospital had asked for him to be allowed to rest without disturbance. He was delighted to find Henri waiting for him as he was discharged the following lunchtime.
‘Good morning, Master Roger. I am delighted that you have sustained no permanent injury, considering the damage to the car and the tree you hit. Also, you will be pleased to know that your huge dog is hunky dory. He is a tough dog, that one, tough as old boots.’ Henri’s command of English slang was a joy to experience, particularly as hunky dory was pronounced ‘oohnké doré’.
Back at the manor, Roger was touched, and slightly intimidated, to find the whole house and grounds staff, now a dozen people, lined up under the arch of the main entrance to greet him. All, that was, except for Linda. Was she still unwell, or had she stayed away deliberately? He resolved to ask Duggie at the first opportunity. He smiled shyly at them all and thanked them for their concern. Henri and he then made their way into the house and along the corridor to Duggie’s office. He was on the phone to somebody. He looked very serious. He briefly put his hand over the receiver and shouted, ‘Great to see you up and about,’ before returning to the job in hand.
At the sound of his voice, the other occupant of the office awoke. Jasper launched himself gleefully at his master, flattening him against the wall of the corridor outside. Henri had not been exaggerating. He was a tough old dog all right. Straightening up, Roger noticed another new member of staff – presumably very recently appointed, as he had not seen her before. She was a rather attractive lady, no longer in the full flush of youth, wearing a smart, if sober, trouser suit. Rather incongruously, beneath the trouser suit, she was wearing a pair of bright-red shoes with frighteningly high heels. Ah well, he thought to himself, I will never understand fashion. He walked over and introduced himself.
‘Hello, I’m Roger Dalby.’
Clearly she had no idea who he was. The sight of the lurid black eye, puffy bruising and tracery of livid marks across his face couldn’t have improved his appearance. But, unfazed, she smiled back and shook the proffered hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. I’m Maureen. I’m the personnel officer.’
Roger was surprised to find her strangely attractive. Surprised, because usually he only had eyes for Linda – but then he had rarely been out of Linda’s sight for more than a couple of days. Now it was, what, almost ten days since he had last seen her?
A familiar face materialised alongside Maureen.
‘May all the blessed saints be praised for the safe return to us of our beloved master. True he now boasts a number of contusions upon his face. But this minor haematoma of the tissue is clearly just transitory and not lasting, by all that is holy.’
Roger, although he was getting used to Paddy’s medical outbursts, had to stop and think. ‘Thank you, Patrick. I’m pleased to say that your prognosis mirrors that of the doctors at the hospital.’
A satisfied smile spread over the Irishman’s face. ‘Even to a layman such as myself, I would say that it’s clear that the majority of your capillaries and venules are untouched by your recent trauma. You will soon be back to looking like a Greek god.’
Roger hadn’t got round to formulating a response when Duggie, his phone call terminated, rushed out of his office and embraced him.
‘Rog, my boy. Thank goodness you are OK.’ He gave Mo an urgent look and suggested, ‘Weren’t you going to check the rooms on level two, Mo?’ She took the hint and left.
Duggie dragged him back into the office and pushed the door closed behind them. He turned to Roger, his face flushed, his voice unusually animated. ‘That was the police on the line. It seems your brake lines were deliberately cut. They say it was either a stupid piece of vandalism, or somebody was trying to kill you! Can you believe it?’ He stumbled over his words as he rushed to get them out.
As he watched Roger’s reaction, the image of a Mafia hit man, complete with black overcoat, violin case and white spats flashed before his eyes. Oh God, what had he started? The nightmare scenario going through his head was that somehow his plans to return the manor to its former use in the Middle Ages, might already have reached the ears of those referred to by Mo as ‘bad people’. Could he be responsible for his best friend’s accident?
For his part, Roger was appalled.
‘Deliberate? Somebody trying to kill me? That’s unthinkable.’ He sat down on one of the new chairs, his brain trying to cope with the thought that
it might have not been an accident. The words of the most recent solicitor’s letter came rushing back to him. Could it really be that this relative of his uncle’s partner was trying to kill him? He had not discussed the contents of the letter with anybody apart, of course, from Linda. Neither Duggie, nor the police, could have had any inkling of a threat to him. He shivered at the thought.
But, nevertheless, he had other, more important, priorities, or at least one very special priority. That was his beloved Linda. The minor matter of somebody possibly trying to kill him, could not be allowed to stand in his way. Not this time. The worm had turned.
He impressed Duggie immensely by brushing the matter aside. ‘Fancy that. Somebody trying to kill me? Ah well, we can worry about that in due course. But, more importantly, how’s Linda? Is she still unwell?’ He really wanted to ask if she knew about his accident, but it sounded too self-centred, so he stopped short. Duggie, however, supplied the answer at once.
‘She’s still unwell, I imagine. To be honest, I didn’t contact her about your accident in case she were still ill. I had no doubt this news would make her worse.’
Roger was greatly, greatly relieved. So she had not deliberately avoided him. But, then, he thought in near panic, maybe she was terribly ill. He redoubled his determination to go and see her at once.
Later that night, Duggie recounted the incident to Tina, at a particularly intimate moment. ‘It was amazing. He took the news that somebody might be out to kill him so casually. Imagine if it really was an attempt on his life. Maybe a contract killing.’
